please, don't wake me

To say I hate dreaming would be quite an understatement. I absolutely detest waking to a head full of nonsense, confusion, or occasionally twisted fear. I make no sense of most of my dreams, except the ones which involve searching for toilets. Those make sense some nights around four am.

I've had only one recurring dream and would welcome it again with open arms tucked under my pillow. In it, both times I was walking through a European town or a small section of such a city, looking for a specific, very quaint bakery where I had been before; perhaps a boulangerie or a panetteria. The structure as I recalled, sat on the left side of a circular dead end, and when you entered you were enveloped by the overwhelmingly homey sight and smell. It was a room full of the toasty warmth from the shades of brown: wood floors, wood tables & chairs, wood shelves, wood burning ovens, golden loaves... The details get cloudy at this point in the dream, but there might have been a faint tinkling bell with each opening of the door. As much as I have tried, I've never mustered up the dream again.

This week I had another delicious culinary dream. It was of Panettone.  I am, obviously, a fan.

W might weigh in here and call me out, for though I am devoted to the holiday breads themselves, I am drawn to them equally by their packaging. I rarely buy one in a box, preferring the awkwardly wrapped, thick, gloriously patterned papers. I consider them art to the extent that there is one sitting atop an etagere, still, after almost a decade. 

My dream was rather like a Panettone Flea Market with vendor tables so tightly situated that they appeared as one long, continuous, communal table. End to end they took up only a portion of a single block's sidewalk. Each table's cloth covering was colorful as if the row of tables were a patchwork quilt. Vendors were selling different Panettones and I was up for sampling them all.

There was a classic with dried fruits, a classic with dried fruits & nuts. Some had cream fillings like pistachio or hazelnut. There was a caramel cream which I remember so well and find amazing that it didn't wake me. Chocolate offerings were of dark rich bread or classically plain with dark chocolate chips, and both came with or without orange. I vaguely remember something about strawberry...

I woke not having made it to the end of the row, taking that as a sign to perhaps pursue while awake. Too much to yet taste! 

There are two places in Dallas where I shop Panettones. Jimmy's Food Store always. Always. Christmas and Easter of every year, wrapped and tied up with ribbons, they are stacked at the entrance. It is for me a sacred tradition and the place I will return to soon; last visit the breads were just beginning to arrive. Eataly will be second, a return visit for I recently got a glimpse of what I believe are all of their offerings. I've eyes set on one type new to me, and although it is boxed, and the box not at all exciting, the glaze of chocolate with a scattering of nuts on top, is tempting to this purist.

So, bedtime prayers that perhaps the choice will come to me in my second recurring dream. It truly was a heavenly one.

the sweetest souls

 Day of the Dead   Día de los Muertos   Todos Los SantosAll Souls’ Day   Dia de Finados   Festival de Barriletes Gigantes...

In many languages and around the world, there is a remembrance day for loved ones deceased.  At its simplest there is lighting of candles, visits to cemeteries, food offerings. The occasion may be made more lavish by preparing elaborate altars, dressing in costume, hosting parties, or even parades. We try to express our remembrances, be it intimately or outrageously.

We miss them. We loved them. On the Day of the Dead we celebrate these lives well lived.

There is for me, no place more sacred than the dining table. Abundant wine, and great food ever present, it is the gathering spot which nourishes body and soul. The table requires no words be spoken yet it hears many: blessings, toasts, grievances, regrets, secrets, arguments, wooings, promises…

It can be a healing haven for the vulnerable, the grieving, the exhausted, and as easily a most sought after seat for hours of anticipated joy and laughter. The dining table is a universal platform of and for the human condition; shared with those while living and celebrating those who have passed.  

This is my such a table.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

soup, blessed soup

When the evil out there seeps in, I find solace not only in my crab shell of sorts, but in the kitchen.  There, I can control something. I can control enough of something to quiet my screaming heart.

Ironic just the grip of a knife is soothing.

a tale of two cafes

There is a lovely cafe in Dallas where W and I go for quiet brunches. We take a bottle of rosé, knowing to call and order the Florentine quiche ahead of arrival or we severely risk missing out. This quiche is old world; Paris driven in my mind. 

We settle in, never in a hurry.  Customers are cozied up to their thoughts or their laptops, seemingly as relaxed as we are, while others come in with or without dogs in tow, to grab and go. W often sketches. Maybe a cafe interior, or by my insistence one afternoon, the wine bar across the street. I peruse: the pastry counter, the ever changing cooling racks, the dozens of sandwiches being prepped in the kitchen, and sometimes the eclectic shelves of china, knick knacks, and books. 

That is how at Leila Cafe I discovered the novel, The Last Days of Cafe Leila.

I quickly secured a copy at the library and though I haven't quite finished it, I want to share a small but moving paragraph from its early pages. The about-to-be newlyweds, Zod and Pari, unaware of (more) tragedies to come, are enjoying blissful hours together.

So began their habit each morning of walking down to the sea, where Zod would spread his jacket close to the hem of the water and they would sit and eat their breakfast of bread and cheese and Pari would peel them an orange. Even this tiny resting of the rinds inside one another in her palm told Zod of the orderly home they would make together. With their life in her hands, Zod felt he would never again feel afraid.

The author, Donia Bijan, expresses so beautifully how a small gesture can represent or suggest something much larger, and possibly lend unexpected rewards. 

There is something about an orderly home that resonates deeply for me. Order grounds me. I think better in a clean and arranged space, it's true. I also crave routine for the same reason. My morning cappuccino in one of the thirty-year-old cups with chipped saucers is somehow an assurance that everything is going to be okay that day. If my physical space is in order, I can take on and relish anything in my path, from spontaneity to fervor.

Leila Cafe and Cafe Leila - life and art once again appearing in my life in such a sweet and delicious way. 

please, join me

I can’t remember W’s exact words but there was honesty and awe in her voice when she spoke.

It was recent, over one of the dinners which we've come to enjoy having at the round high-top in the office room we now call The Café, since hanging a half curtain at the window for evening privacy. It fits us; a tucked away table for two, within the bistro.

Our dinners are like Spoke and I had, like W has long wished for and now has with me, and like Jacques Pepin describes of his own such ritual with his late wife.

Wine is consumed and conversation never lulls. The dinners are leisurely no matter what. Time waits for us. Seems sometimes to stand still.

“You treat yourself as a guest in your own bistro,” is what she said, full of wonderment as if she was outside looking in; not wanting to be like me, but intrigued by what she sees.

It is true.

If alone, I take the time to prepare what it takes to eat well, even if, and often, in its simplest form. Well does not mean extravagant, but delicious, good at its worst. That I plate and serve in a beautiful manner is what I do whether for my guests or myself.

The effort may just be my way of respecting the food. It, by nature, is giving me so much pleasure and good health, meals should be acknowledged, even celebrated. Handwashing pretty plates is not a chore.

I know of perhaps only one like-minded person and that is my friend, Grethe. Our birthdays are just a day apart which may account for the similarities. It’s a nice, albeit unique connected feeling despite the distance between us.

Much like the pleasure of a great stemmed glass for wine, attention to detail sets a tone which is touted often yet I never tire of it: Life is short, use the good china.

Eat the cake too, I'll add.

irony

EVERY SECOND COUNTS

It is a sign in the kitchens on the televised show, The Bear, and a theme by which the entire restaurant staff is reminded to operate. Start to finish, seconds can alter any stage of providing an exceptional dining experience to guests. 

It struck me that the same could be said of this production getting scenes to the viewer. In this beautifully scripted and tremendously acted series, they have made every second count. Each are powerful. They may be a second's worth of a glance that warns or a smile that warms. A second might produce a single word, such as fuck, of which there are very many within each forty minutes, sometimes whispered under one's breath, often screamed loudly.

The show is a non-stop, jam-packed thrill. Costly accidents happen in seconds. Hearts are broken and hearts are healed in seconds. So much can happen and does happen that I often find myself holding my breath for several seconds at a time.

The Bear
Written by Kelly Galuska/Directed by Christopher Storer
Seasons, One and Two

gardenias

I missed those gardenias and those times she would pass me in the house and I would catch the sweet smelling passage of her, that irresistible tonic of perfume she carried with her, attractive to bees and worshipful sons.



Prince of Tides
Pat Conroy